


Last Match's Light

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne | The Little Match Girl - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: Gen, I apologize for the translitteration--most of it was taken from Google Translate, Mentions of Death, This is an epilogue to The Little Match Girl set in Russia, mentions of hypothermia, mentions of possible domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anya Ivanova is a little match girl who travels the streets of Russia on a cold December night, striving to sell her matches and spread a little light. She is frozen and alone when a final light finds her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Match's Light

The little match girl saw people pass by in the snow alongside her, their boots warm and strong against the cold, their coats more than threadbare. She lit the first match and felt the warmth of a fire on her feet and hands; she lit the second and saw an enormous feast laid out just for her; she lit the third and saw her beloved babushka [grandmother] again, with a tree awash in candlelight—and when next she woke, she was back in the snow, and her babushka was still there to wrap her arms around the girl and carry her away into a warm bright light. 

At least, that’s what the girl thought. 

Actually, after the couple that dumped snow on the girl’s head had gone in, their son—who had been waiting for them inside—saw her huddled frozen shape covered in white. He put on his thickest socks and warm woolen cap, and wrapped himself in an extra blanket before venturing into the cold. 

It was midwinter in Moscow, and all of the people the little match girl saw piling into carriages and tramping around in thick boots were going to Yuletide parties. The boy’s parents were hosting one of these, and in bringing in the food and setting up the table, they paid little heed to the little match girl—or to the sight of their son, for that matter. But he was a caring boy who was also observant. He crouches down in the snow now, and reaches out to touch the girl’s cheek. His hand burns icy-cold and he can’t tell if she breathes. This frightens him. Her lips are a dark purplish-blue and her skin is blanched nearly snow-white. Seeing this, he brushes the snow away from her shoulders. He wonders who she is and where her parents are. Why would they leave their little daughter alone during the coldest part of winter? 

“Zdravstvuyte, malyshka. Pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta vstavay!” [Hello, little girl. Please, please wake up!]

Her eyelids flutter. It is getting cold again—her grandmother has gone; she had smiled and put the girl down before telling her to wait. Another would come. But who? She now opens her eyes and breathes, looking into a face that is about the size of her own. A stranger’s face. A boy’s, she thinks. His eyes light up as he sees hers and she realizes that she heard him calling, telling her to wake up, please. She shakes her head and down falls some snow. Where are her matches?!? The girl is leaping up, frantically fumbling, but she grows dizzy almost at once as she remembers they have all burnt out. She used her last one to visit her grandmother. Where had they been? In Heaven; yes, she must have gone up to Heaven until this boy saved her life. He has caught her as she falls, his grey wool cap slipping down over one of his eyebrows. 

“Ne bespokoysya, teper’vy v bezopasnosti. Vy dolzhny priyti vnutri. Sushchestvuyet teplo i ogon’ i yeda.” [Do not worry, now you are safe. You must come inside. There is warmth and fire and food.] He wraps his blanket snugly around her once more shivering shoulders and attempts to steer her to the door of his house. 

He thinks that she is too weak to move, and attempts to scoop her up, but she makes a quiet cry, almost a keening sound. Her feet, wrapped only in rags, are blue with the cold, but she stands solidly on them as she looks as if she will be swallowed by his blanket. She shakes her head and manages to chatter out,

“Net—net YA ne mogu priyti v. YA ne prodal svoi matchi. Oni menya nakazhet. I u menya net deneg, chtoby zaplatit' vam za vashu dobrotu.” [No—no I cannot come in. I have not sold my matches. They will punish me. And I h-have no money to pay you for your kindness.]

The boy stares at her, dumbfounded. How could someone, because of disappointment, refuse to let a child inside from the cold?! Where must she be living, that her life could be so? His parents may not take notice of his every move, but at least they love and care for him. He knows that.

“YA ne dayu dva inzhir dlya etogo. Chto egoistichno ublyudki vashi opekuny dolzhny byt', yesli oni bol'she bespokoyatsya o den'gakh, chem o vas!” [I do not give two figs for that. What selfish bastards your guardians must be, if they are more worried about money than about you!] Her eyes widen and she smiles a little to hear his vehement curses on her behalf, but she still does not move. “Khorosho, ya budu prosit' mamu, yesli vy mozhete prokatit'sya nash pol v kachestve oplaty, yesli pogasheniye mne to, chto vy chuvstvuyete, chto vy dolzhny sdelat'. Ladno?” [Fine, I will ask my mother if you can sweep our floor as payment, if repaying me is what you feel you must do. Okay?]

“. . . Ladno.” [Okay.] She allows him to lead her up the steps and to the door. It groans loudly as he swings it open, and a blast of sweet, warm air emanates from inside.

“Kstati, to, chto vashe imya? Menya zovut Aleks. Kak syn poslednego tsarya, vid. Moye polnoye imya Alexander Krisnakov.” [By the way, what is your name? I am called Alex. Like the son of the last czar, kind of. My full name is Alexander Krisnakov.]

“YA Anya. Anya Ivanova.” [I am Anya. Anya Ivanova.] Alex smiles and shakes hands with her—she returns his handshake hesitantly. He then hangs up his coat by the door. His next words have the ring of maturity; perhaps they are something his father says to guests regularly:

“Eto ochen' priyatno vstretit'sya s vami, Anya. Prikhodite i chuvstvuyte sebya kak doma.” [It’s very nice to meet you, Anya. Come in and make yourself at home.] Anya feels as though Alex’s kindness has lit a flame of hope inside her, like he is the last of her matches—the one that remains in her hand to help light her way.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an epilogue to Hans Christian Andersen's story titled "The Little Match Girl", and its inception occurred after I watched the Disney short film of that name, set in Russia.
> 
> Thanks to Hans Christian Andersen for writing this story; thanks to Disney for animating it; and thanks to my suitemate for asking me to watch it with her and wishing that there was another way it could have ended. My little story is the result of that.
> 
> I hope any native Russian speakers will forgive me if I completely butchered their language. My knowledge extends only to a few words, and Google Translate provided the rest. So my thanks also go out to that computer program for its invaluable aid.


End file.
